


maybe this night was never meant to go away, still it kills me all the same

by inkwelled



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Homesickness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Memory Loss/Erasure, Mental Instability, Moving On, Past Relationship(s), Post-War, Retrospective, Scars, Self-Destruction, Shadow Weaver's A+ Parenting, Sharing a Bed, Stockholm Syndrome, Trigger Warning I Guess?, Unrequited Love, breakdowns, except without the comfort part, i mean i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 02:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16945104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: Adora’s oldest memory is of Catra.





	maybe this night was never meant to go away, still it kills me all the same

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a "adora's scars from catra don't go away, both physically and emotionally/mentally" and turned into "sad boy hours where adora takes up a mantel and regrets every minute of it because she misses home but she's selfless and ends up dying for a cause she believed in but never really was a part of"
> 
> title from [all the same by nick wilson](https://genius.com/Nick-wilson-all-the-same-lyrics) because i love crying
> 
> as if this fandom needs any more angst hhh ANYWAYS

Adora watches as her reflection draws light fingers down the scars. Where Catra’s claws had ripped apart the skin before, the skin has now stitched itself back together and lingers in pale pink, twisted puckers.

It’s ugly, but it’s a reminder.

One she desperately needs.

Adora’s oldest memory is of Catra.

_Go figure._

The first thing she can ever remember is wailing out in the night before being cuddled close by her. The next thing she remembers is the taste of blood in her mouth as she lost her first tooth during a play fight with Catra in the locker rooms that ended with Catra whimpering in fear and pain as Shadow Weaver lorded over her, mask blank. Adora remembers herself screaming too, planting herself like a tree and refusing to move out from between Shadow Weaver and her best friend.

Catra’s knee’s had banged to the floor the second her agonized whimpering cut off and Adora remembers that night as the one that started it all.

Her bed in Eternia, despite the change from virtually a giant pillow to a cot, is still too big. It’s too soft, too long, her feet dangle close to the edge without a Catra-shaped person at the end to wrap her tail around her ankles and play bite at her calves.

Adora’s reflection tears her sight away from the scars, but the taste in her mouth lingers long after she’s left the bathroom. She haunts these halls like a ghost most nights, unable to sleep, and the corridors always run amuck with whispers the next morning.

She doesn’t care.

Becoming She-Ra is easy.

_Being Adora is hard._

She knows Glimmer and Bow are trying their best. At least once a week they have a ‘slumber party’ and Adora will sleep all the way through the night. But they can't sleep near her every night, so she shuts down.

She conserves that energy until the next fight, the next battle, the next training sequence, the next public outing, the next sleepover.

It’s an endless cycle, and it’s no wonder she breaks. The only relief is that she’s alone and that it’s taken this long.

Adora's reflection sobs in front of her. She's naked from the neck down, the only clothing the binding she had worn the night she assured Catra she would be back before the morning.

But never returned.

Clutching at her shoulders, she tears her gaze away only to sink to the floor. The tile of the bathroom is cold against her thighs but she curls up, burying her head in her arms and shivering in the cool air.

Usually, Glimmer comes looking for her after war meetings.

No-one comes.

Adora finds she prefers it.

Who else would really understand, anyway? She's just a traitor homesick for her old ways, for her old people. Adora knows neither Glimmer nor Bow would understand, no one would.

This is a burden she brought onto herself.

One she'll have to face alone.

And maybe she deserves it. Adora remembers that moment in the temple when Light Hope replayed all the memories of her and Catra. Adora remembers looking at Catra's betrayed face as she stepped away into the smoke, the frozen smile on Entrapta's face as she tinkered with something.

Adora wonders if the aching in her chest will ever go away.

She misses it.

Bright Moon is bright and quiet all the time. Everything is perfectly buffed and shined to perfection, the walls sloping in soft curves to create domes and long, winding hallways.

It's such a contrast from the Horde Adora's head spins.

She misses the sharp corners, the creaking and whining of the pipes. The early morning training sessions, that familiar burn of her legs during her laps. The schedule. The routine. The stink of oil and gasoline that had signaled _home_  for seventeen years of her life.

This is her new normal.

Adora crawls to bed, still only in her pants and bindings, and curls up. This is her new normal, and she wonders if Mara's downfall was because she was too selfish, too.

Adora wants to go home.

Glimmer knocks three times, but she stays silent.

Glimmer leaves.

Adora cries into her thin blanket, the only thing she kept from the extravagant bed. She wants to go home to Catra, to her bunk, to Shadow Weaver.

Despite everything, she misses her mentor and mother figure.

_Manipulation is Shadow Weaver's whole game!_

In the quiet room, Catra's words bounce around in her head. She can do nothing but turn them over and over, watching example after example resurface. Adora remembers much but skips over the weird blank spots in her memory.

_Manipulation._

Shadow Weaver never loved her. Adora knows this much.

But it's not that easy.

Queen Angella had pulled her aside earlier that day, promising to try to track down her parents. Adora had swallowed down a sob, nodded weakly, and fled.

_Her parents._

_Family._

The only family she ever had she left behind.

It's so much bigger than Catra.

Or is it?

Adora misses Lani, the cock of her hip after matches, the reassured curve of her spine during their laps. She misses Rogelio's quiet humor, his gruff laugh at Kyle's antics. Adora misses Kyle, the youngest member of her squad that Adora had come to think of as her little brother.

Adora misses her family.

Whatever people that had abandoned her were _not_ her family.

The royal healer had said quietly the wounds of her back would scar. The ones on her cheek would stay pink, left too long to their own devices to truly fade, and Adora refuses the makeup Glimmer offers.

This is her burden. Her fault.

She will carry this weight with both hands. Adora will hold this sword with both hands, charge into battle. She will defend her new companions with her dying breath, until she dies like every She-Ra before her.

It is the fate of the She-Ra.

Adora wakes, wanders down the halls, accepts her fate.

She fights, and fights, and fights.

Until she can't anymore.

She never gets to say goodbye to Catra. She never gets to apologize, never sees her face to face again before the canon shot goes wide and the last thing she hears is the agonized scream of her name from Catra's lips.

Adora watches the pained curve of her lips until her vision fades from neon green to black.

 

 

 

Catra does not celebrate the defeat of She-Ra as a victory.

She wails, and wails, and doesn't give the Rebellion the honor of having her corpse. What's left of Adora, hair burned off in chunks, skin charred, scars criss-crossing her cheeks from previous battles, finds rest at the edge of Horde territory.

Catra leaves the sword.

She-Ra was Bright Moon's.

Adora was hers.


End file.
